Tintinnabulation
by Kato Molotov
Summary: AU somewhere in s3 post 3x17. Beckett discovers what Castle is made of: big things and little things and silly things, and maybe a bit of magic too. Long one-shot.


**Tintinnabulation**

* * *

He's far too serious about this silly game. She knows he's part 12 year old at heart (12, no longer 9; she thinks even his inner child deserves the promotion in light of recent stupid-brave city-saving heroics), but the intense competitiveness that overtakes him when they play still surprises her. She can't decide if it's annoying or cute, but it's definitely ridiculous and so very _Castle_.

The board sits on his desk in the quiet comfort of his office, surrounded by his stories and treasures. She's not quite sure how they started this, spending evenings together after work. Her place, his place, the precinct, the Old Haunt. Doesn't matter. They talk cases and spin theories when one is hot, because neither of them settles very well and they just spend their evening texting about it when they're apart anyway. When the case is stalled or the city grants them a reprieve between murders, they relax. Sometimes they're joined by the boys or by the resident redheads at Castle's, but more often than not it's just them, what with everyone else having gotten lives while they weren't looking.

She thinks it's perfectly justified. Who else are they going to hang out with? Her break from Josh after the would-be-bombing/almost-freezing-to-death incident left her with free time (as much free time as she ever had, anyway) and homicide detectives don't exactly have opportunities for vast social circles, after all. Castle's work at the 12th, on top of writing about it, doesn't lend itself to maintaining his old life of mid-week poker games with the city's wealth and power between dates with models either.

The homicide team at the 12th has always stuck together. Drinks and occasional suppers after work are par for the course. Except that it's not that way any more. Ryan goes home to his adoring fiancee. Espo and Lanie are nowhere to be found the moment it's quitting time. (And they still don't realise how transparent they are – how could anyone fail to see it?) Montgomery has his wife and young daughters. She and Castle are the odds and ends.

Tonight is no different from the last few weeks. Martha's acting retreat in Mohonk and Alexis' night at her friend's place leaves the remainders of the 12th with a free night but an order to stay sober – Beckett is still on call until the wee hours of the morning, and if a body drops, they've both got to have their wits. They bickered back and forth on their way out of the precinct, finally settling on Castle's place and an easy supper. She won't say it, but she doesn't like being alone that much any more. Not since the freezer and the bomb. She has a feeling that Castle doesn't either, though she thinks it might have more to do with Tyson than anything.

It's been a hell of a year, she thinks. It's only natural that the spares stick together, especially when they're on call. Right?

Suddenly he's standing up and it snaps her from her thoughts. He stares at the board between them as if it were a piece of crucial evidence, to be assessed and studied from every angle. Every bit the (unofficial) detective, even at home in his casual shirt and denims, barefoot, he drives the point home by pacing, considering his options, pacing some more. He mouths along with his thoughts. It all looks like nonsense to her, but she learned the hard way the first time they played this game, on a slow day at the precinct many months ago, to not discount his 'strategy' as foolishness or dramatics.

"Castle? While we're young?" He doesn't look up and waves her off flippantly. She throws a glare at him, but he doesn't see it and she thinks that might be just as well because it wasn't much of a glare anyway.

She sighs, feigning exasperation, and focuses instead on her Italian flag soup, still hot after an hour thanks to Castle's heavy dinnerware. They had cooked it together, their implicit understanding of each other as partners translating easily from the field to the kitchen. They rarely need to speak when they cook, anticipating the other's needs for whatever task they're working on.

Her mother once said that if you wanted to know if two people could get along, long term, all you had to do was watch them cook a meal together.

Smiling softly, Kate lets herself drift as the memory plays in her mind. She's 10 years old again, sitting at the counter and watching her parents move around their grand kitchen as they make lunch. Her mom sneaks up on her dad with a mischievous smile and a silent '_shhhh_!' look to Kate, right before she presses a cold, slimy slice of deli ham to his face. Her father's shoulders and neck scrunch as he cringes and makes an _eeeuugh_! sound, but he quickly whirls around smiling, his own fingers dipping into a small container of honey-mustard and dabbing a small amount on his wife's nose, before leaning over the counter and doing the same to his giggling daughter, payment for her traitorous silence. The three descend into silliness, her parents' normal serious demeanour giving way to childish food-fighting.

It's an insignificant moment in the grand scheme of things, but it's a memory Kate holds onto for dear life. It's not Disney World or her high school graduation or the time her mom surprised her on her birthday by letting her skip school and taking her to her first Broadway show. Somehow, it's richer, sweeter. Infinitely more precious. It's proof positive of everyday magic.

Her earlier annoyance with Castle's slightly melodramatic methods forgotten, she tracks him back and forth on his side of the desk as she finishes her soup. Good to the last morsel. Long minutes pass, and she's content to watch him in silence. He stops. A strange look spreads across his features. He stares at the board, glances at her, and back to the board, then back to her.

"Problem, Castle?" she asks, confused.

"It can't be," he murmurs, ignoring her. He hurries into his captain's chair and checks his tiles. Board, Kate, tiles. Board, Kate, tiles. He repeats his cycle a few more times and she's getting dizzy watching him.

"You blow a fuse in there or something?" His crow of laughter startles her and she wonders if he really has lost the plot.

"Noooo," he says impishly, "but you're going to! You lose! Lo-o-o-o-ooose!"

His grin reaches Cheshire Cat magnitude as he snaps one tile after another onto their board. She notes that he's cleared his row. Damn, 50 points right there and she's already 100-plus points down as is. He's right, she's done for.

"I don't believe it," he breathes. "It's a dream come true!" He jumps up and very nearly dances, shouting "yes!" over and over, his inner-12-year-old unleashed.

"Your dream involves beating me at Super Scrabble?" she teases and reclines casually in her chair, watching his victory antics, "Castle, you do that at least once a week and you beat Espo every time. You need some new dreams. Surely a writer can think-" he interrupts her.

"No, no! The word!"

She turns the board around to finally see what it is that has her partner so excited.

T-I-N-T-I-N-N-A-B-U-L-A-T-I-O-N.

"You're _kidding _me," she gawks at him, "first of all, is that even a real word? And if it is it sounds dirty and I don't even want to know what it means. Second, why are you acting like you've just won the lottery?"

Swooping in over her shoulder, Castle crowds her like he does when they look over case files or she reads his latest chapter. She doesn't bother to cover her own tiles, she hasn't even calculated his points and she knows it's over. He's hit at least one double and triple word multiplier each, not to mention added into a few existing words. His fingers trace his word like he can't quite believe it before he's calmed down enough to move to face her and explain.

"It IS a real word, thank you very much, and despite the sound, it's not dirty in the least. Tintinnabulation means, 'the sound of ringing bells.' Ultimately derived from the Latin root '_tinnere_;' to ring. It was first published by, maybe coined in this form by, the immortal Edgar Allan Poe in his poem, '_The Bells_.'"

When her look remains blank and sceptical, he elaborates.

"It's my favourite word and has been for over 20 years. I like the meaning, and in addition, it's just plain fun to say. Try it!" he cajoles her and pleads boyishly, nearly bouncing on his own feet, "Go on, sayyyyyy it! Beckett, Beeeckett, say it, Beckett!"

She can see he won't shut up (she's not sure she wants him to) if she doesn't play along, so she humours him.

"Tintinnabulation," she tries the word on her tongue, unable to keep the smile from spreading on her face. She doesn't know if it's his infectious merriment or the word itself. It _is_ kind of fun to say. She has to do it again. "Tintinnabulation!"

"Told you so," he exclaims, thrilled that she shares his opinion of his favourite word.

"It's been on my bucket list for years to find an occasion to use it in Scrabble. Impossible with the original game – 16 letters, 15x15 board – which is why it was one of the best things to ever happen to board games when Super Scrabble came out. It gave me a dream, and tonight," he pauses theatrically, channelling his inner-Martha, "a dream has come true. This is _better_ than winning the lottery."

She blinks at him, bemused, and the meddlesome thought that Castle might be some kind of magic in and of himself comes to her unbidden. She can't stop grinning any more than he can. Navy blue eyes sparkling like they do the moment he realises they've solved a case, he rakes a hand through his thick hair, then back down over his face, still evidently in disbelief at his good luck. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet, producing from it a small, worn piece of paper. Fumbling around on his desk for a pencil, he finally finds one and triumphantly crosses something out. It dawns on her that it's his bucket list. He has a physical bucket list that he keeps with him, apparently at all times.

"You have an actual bucket list?" Kate says incredulously, though without the sarcasm she intended, instead with an emotion she might label marvel, if she lets herself think about it.

"Yes! Doesn't everybody?" he asks, "How do you keep track of everything you want to do, if you don't keep a list?"

"I don't really think about it, to be honest," the words aren't chosen carefully enough but she tells herself it's almost not a lie except that part about being honest. "I don't like to live too far ahead."

He sobers and she mentally kicks herself for darkening his mood and spoiling his moment, ruining the magic for him, even just a little. By way of apology, she leans over and lays her fingers across his wrist. He simply accepts it with no outward note.

"I know. It's silly of me, I know, but it's fun to cross things off. Big things and little things and silly stupid things, like finally using 'tintinnabulation.'" Her heart melts a little.

"The silly things matter, Castle," she says softly, remembering her earlier thoughts of her parents in the kitchen. "Maybe more than anything else."

Smile back in place, he makes no move to shake her hand off his arm, and she doesn't pull it away just yet.

"So, what else is on that list?" she asks, genuinely curious about the big things and the little things and the silly things that make up her partner's dreams. She thinks she sees some unknown emotion flash across his features, but by her second glance, it's gone and he's recovered. He feigns a shocked look.

"You can't tell someone what's on your bucket list before it's crossed off!" Castle states, as if it's common knowledge.

"Why?"

"Because that's not in the rules, Beckett! It's bad luck! It's like telling what you wished for on your birthday candles!" Of course it's the most obvious thing in the world to him. She shakes her head.

"Aaand where exactly did you go to school to become arbiter on the rules of bucket list making?" she taunts, her curiosity about the other items on that piece of paper growing by the second.

"It's not in the rules!" Castle snorts mulishly.

"Since when have you been known to play by the rules?"

"I respect the rules of the universe and by extension, the rules of bucket lists. Also birthday wishes, not peeking at Christmas presents, and I never make pacts with or take magical items from old Eastern European women because gypsy curses."

Kate can't help but roll her eyes at him. He really is too much sometimes.

Castle moves to tuck his list back into his wallet and she launches for it impulsively, on her feet before he can react. It doesn't occur to her immediately when his expression changes from teasing to serious, worried even. They grapple for a moment as they often do over some piece of bagged evidence to examine, or a last invaluable eggroll during a late-night takeaway dinner at work. Forgetting all pretences of being the mature one in the room, Kate swats him and incapacitates his arm, he goes limp and then she's grabbing the list at last. She retreats back to her chair and glances at him before reading it.

His expression registers to her at last once she's across from him and he's instinctively stepped off to a corner of the office – he's scared of whatever is on that list. Scared of her reading it. It's not a superstition or even a desire to believe in magic bucket lists and birthday wishes. He's genuinely scared. His helpless look as he stares at her almost makes her hand it back, sight unseen, but _damnit_ she's even more curious now and she can't stop herself even though her conscience is screaming at her to do the right thing.

She takes a breath and seeks out his latest scratch-off, finding it quickly.

**#4. Use "tintinnabulation," in Scrabble.**

_Huh,_ she thinks. He really does have it on his bucket list. She reads aloud, the other items he's already scratched off...

"**#3. 500 points at laser tag with Alexis**." Adorable.

"**#7. Kill Derrick Storm.** Charming, Castle. You really wanted that guy dead, that bad?" He makes no movement, still gazing at her with that strange paralysed expression. She doesn't understand.

"**#16. See the stars from a Bortle Scale 1 location.** The heck is..." her voice tapers off and the question dies forgotten in her mouth.

As she scans the list, she realises that it starts with #2. The old #1 has been cut off, there's no room for it at the top. Her eyes seek it out at the bottom, and she gasps silently when she sees it. Most of the list is in faded pencil, changed and scratched off at will. #1 is in ink, thick black letters, taller and more carefully written than the haphazard other items.

**#1. Be with Kate.**

It knocks the wind right out of her. _Be with Kate. _The fear in his eyes, his reluctance to show his list to her, the way he's looking at her like she might shoot him or run out the door, suddenly makes sense. _Be with Kate._ She feels her blood rush. _Be with Kate._

"Beckett..." he starts, she interrupts before she can stop.

"Castle, when did you write this?" she asks, awed and confused and scared to death of his answer no matter what it is. Scared of what, she can't decide. That he didn't mean it? That he did? That it's a sexual conquest? That it isn't? That it's a recent addition? That it's been there too long? That his mind has changed since? That it never will?

"Kate, I..." she interrupts him, not caring how deep she's in now. Their relationship as they know it ends one way or another tonight, maybe for good, maybe reborn, it hangs on his answer. She's determined to make him say his piece, she won't let him back out now.

"When. Did. You. Write. This?" she enunciates carefully, but not unkindly. She needs to know.

He doesn't respond for some long moments and drops his gaze, like he knows he might be screwed and is trying to think his way out of this.

"Castle?" she prompts, gently this time.

"About a year and a half ago. After that psycho blew up your apartment," he finally responds in a whoosh, as if it's the last breath left in his lungs. When she doesn't move to leave, he dares a glance at her and his eyes tell it all, his careful front shattered. She can't speak. Her throat clamps closed and her teeth clench. She's rooted to the spot and so is he; they hang on the edge together for days or maybe it's only minutes, she doesn't know.

His voice is choked when he breaks their silence.

"_Please_." It's nearly a sob. She doesn't know what he's asking her but she nods instinctively, finding herself willing to agree to whatever it is. Leave? Stay? Kiss me? Push me away? Walk out of my life? Stay with me forever? Say it? Say nothing? Please don't? Please do? She'll do anything.

"Don't hate me." He answers her silent question. It catches her by surprise.

"I don't." She quickly clarifies, "I don't hate you, I..."

Her mind can't find the words. Her heart supplies.

And her rationalising, damnable, overthinking mind can't argue this time – it doesn't even try. She mentally flashes through the last year and a half.

* * *

_Castle_ pulling her from the burning apartment.  
_Castle_ asking her to look out for Alexis if something happened to him, curse-related or not.  
_Castle_ laughing a little too hard at one of Demming's stupid jokes and turning the awkward in the room up to eleven.  
_Castle_ forcing a smile as he walks away for the summer or maybe forever after with his ex-wife_.  
__Castle_ trying his damnedest to win their wager on the counterfeit case, just to be her partner again.  
_Castle_ aiming a gun in her direction, their mutual lack of fear at each others' hands as they each shot over the other's shoulder, even with three months of hurt between them.  
_Castle_ keeping her at just the right balance of annoyed and amused, by her side, every day.  
_Castle's_ enthusiasm to shoot the antique guns with her, and his stupid(ly endearing) steampunk-on-safari costume.  
_Castle_ holding her hand and breaking when Tyson got the better of him and Ryan.  
_Castle_ as he finds out the worst part of being a cop: when you don't manage to save the day and the unknown of others' lives hangs over your head.  
_Castle's _infectious passion for all things magic in the Zalman Drake case.  
_Castle_ handing over her life-source every morning in a cup.  
_Castle_ looking lost and alone when he learns what it's like to see a hero fall, just like she had after Royce's betrayal.  
_Castle_ turning down dates with increasing, ostensibly unjustified annoyance at the women asking.  
_Castle_ grabbing her roughly and kissing her – _oh – _so fiercely and desperately in that dingy alleyway.  
_Castle_ almost dying with her, wrapped around each other in the freezer.  
_Castle,_ needing to live even as she resigns them both to their fate, making one insane last-ditch attempt; one good yank and he's dancing around on a high as she throws her arms around him.  
_Castle_ as he finds out the best part of being a cop: managing to save the day just in time and sparing countless, blissfully unaware lives.  
_Castle_ ushering her through the door, insistent on sitting her down to supper with his family when she drops by unannounced with a theory to bounce off him, because she just can't wait for morning to hear what he thinks and texting him wouldn't suffice.  
_Castle_ accepting it quietly when he reveals his homemade murder board to her, watching as she walks away furiously and says they're over, looking like he's lost more than just his partner.  
_Castle's_ awed expression when she returns to him, red-eyed and clad in her sweats at 2AM and lets him into the case for real, finally, before she collapses on his couch and sleeps at last.  
_Castle_ admitting to her just two days ago in this very office that he doesn't sleep easily since Tyson and that he obtained a concealed carry permit (with Montgomery's blessing, of all things); that he's never unarmed any more and that he can't be her partner or Ryan's or Esposito's for that matter, if he can't respond in situations like the motel debacle. Or worse.  
_Castle_ passing ingredients back and forth silently as they work on the soup earlier that night, as if they've been sharing a kitchen and a life for decades.

* * *

How can she even have a question about what Item #1 on the list means to him? How could she have failed to see it, or maybe just refused to believe it before it was laid out for her in writing? He's told her a thousand times already, a hundred ways. He tells her every day, he might as well be screaming it at the top of his lungs. He tells her with everything he is and everything he's become over the last year. The big things and the little things and the silly things.

She tries to tell him too, she has to tell him somehow, but her throat still won't open and the words still fail her.

('_Language is the source of misunderstanding_.' Castle's said it a few times in passing lately and it's a curious thing for a writer to say, probably out of some book. Kate thinks she understands at last.)

So she settles for the alternative.

Barely brave and more than a little frightened, Kate pushes herself up from her seat and walks to where he stands frozen against the far bookshelf where he first retreated when she took his list, like an untamed creature being approached for the first time. Can she put her heart at risk again? Can she put him on the line? Grave questions rise in her heart, but ones she already knows the answer to. She has to, even if she doesn't think she can. It won't be for nothing this time.

Castle watches her warily as she steps closer, stays stock still and breathes shallowly as she brushes the back of her hand over his face. His only move is to look down at her other hand, twining with his own. She realises he's shaking just as badly as she is and the insight warms her, makes her feel just a little courageous. He must feel it too, he smiles shyly – another first, she thinks, Castle being shy – and she's not sure who moves first, not sure she even cares.

In her bare feet without the 4-inch heels to give her her usual height advantage, she nearly has to stand on her toes to reach him. Helpfully, he bends his head down just a bit, closing the gap and unexpectedly pressing his forehead to hers, rather than his lips. Her free hand snakes around his neck, urging him to step closer and he does until the space between blacks out of existence. His hand finds the small of her back and the weight and warmth of him is easy and familiar, new and frightening, all at once. Pressed against each other, they simply stay still and feel. Kate can't stand it any more after a long while. She has to.

The spark she felt for their first kiss in that alleyway is there, always there, but there's something more, too. It's warmer, sweeter, slower, more cautious and more daring at once. It's not cowardly this time around: he's out of excuses of a convincing cover and she has no convenient lie she can tell herself and almost believe. There's no room for misunderstanding this time, no more lies or excuses between them. _Truth conquers all._

Kate tries to deepen the kiss; Castle won't let her. He keeps it light, almost apologetic, but she understands and lets him set his own pace. Each corner of her mouth, then her chin, her forehead, her temple, her neck, he's murmuring nonsense the whole time like she's the most precious thing in his world. Even he probably doesn't know what it's supposed to mean, but it's comforting and happy, deliriously happy, if not a bit disbelieving. She in turn reciprocates, brushing any bit of flesh her lips can find, light and gentle. She lets out a breathless laugh and soon he's there with her, they're laughing against each others' skin. Until he's not laughing any more and he's sealing his mouth over hers again, practically insisting they take it further.

The first slide of his tongue into her mouth is exquisite. His taste is something she never imagined, on the not-so-rare occasions she allows her mind to wander to her partner during the private moments where her more X-Rated fantasies can take hold. When he forced his way into her mouth in the alley, she'd been too shocked to appreciate it. Kate commits it to memory. If pressed to describe it, she might call his taste smoky, in a pleasant way, and a little sweet too. She thinks she can taste the faintest hint of cinnamon and whisky on him, though she knows he's had neither tonight. Whatever it is, she can't get enough and reconnects with him after a single deep breath when he breaks their hold. She feels him smile into her kiss and respond enthusiastically. They explore and drift together, taking their time. Her legs are starting to tire of her stance, still meeting Castle halfway by standing on her toes, and she doesn't mind at all.

A more dominant side of Castle, the same one she glimpsed in the alleyway, takes over as they grow in confidence and the fire between them builds. This time, however, concern and care and happiness are foremost his silent command, desperation and anger and frustration nowhere to be found. He walks her backwards into the closed door from his office to his bedroom, his hands brushing her sides and his thigh gently pushing between her legs, his front pressed to her hip letting her know just how much he's enjoying this. She makes a strangled sound into his mouth at the contact. Castle holds her there, still exploring her mouth eagerly; he has her pinned but feeling not the least bit trapped.

Kate doesn't try to wrest control of the situation back from him. Not this time. She's taken away so much control from him already tonight, and while she's glad in hindsight that she did – right or wrong, it led them here, didn't it? – she's also determined to give it back to him.

He needs to know that she's in it as much as he is. He needs to know that she trusts him to lead sometimes, that she can hand over the reins and meet him halfway. He needs to know that if she had a list, he'd be on it too. First on it at that, she realises. It shocks her a bit, that she'd put him above her quest justice for her mother, but perhaps it shouldn't in light of her many revelations about her partner tonight. She and Castle are still living, her mother is gone, and no matter how much she wants justice, she wants life – a life with Castle – more. She thinks that's the difference now: she wants that eternal struggle to _live,_ not to just settle to survive. Hazily, Kate thinks she needs a list of her own after all, needs to fill it with big things and little things and silly things.

Castle seeks more, looks at her for approval, his slightly-shaking hands stopping short of unbuttoning her ivory silken blouse. She answers with a nod and she can't keep her own fingers from working at his now-rumpled shirt. It takes entirely too long to just get their shirts off, the simple task becoming far more difficult when desire and nerves and a break for another kiss that turns into five more interferes. Finally, the offending garments are gone, forgotten on the floor. Castle steps back momentarily to appreciate her.

His gaze is intense, hungry. The man's lips are slightly swollen from their kisses, his hair wild, his breathing a bit shallow. She thinks she probably has the same look: ragged and dazed, half-feral and all pleasure. Feeling more than seeing it, she watches him watch her. She's no fool, she knows he's undressed her with his eyes and that writer's imagination a thousand times. (She may or may not have done the same.) Her confidence grows at his obvious appreciation of the reality, like he'd never imagined anything that could compare. Castle's laser-stare travels from her neck, collarbones, shoulders, still-covered breasts, down to her abdomen and why is she three-quarters clothed, again?

Kate stares right back, unashamed and enjoying that she no longer has to hide her glances to her partner. While she appreciates a well-dressed man, she thinks she likes this just as much. She strips his undershirt and he helps her, he's smirking as she takes in the view, her sentiments echoing his from a moment earlier. The reality is _so_ much better. She's never seen him without a shirt, and while he's no bodybuilder, he's not the desk jockey she expected either. Of course had she allowed herself to think on it logically, she'd have realised long ago that it wouldn't be the case. Seeing him viciously beat the shit out of more than one suspect that threatened her might have been a big clue, in retrospect.

She reaches for him first, a light touch to his bare shoulders, and he's back on her before she knows what hit her, his mouth fixed to her again. When he sucks her collar bone into his mouth, it's all she can do to thread her fingers through his hair and explore what she can reach randomly. Kate grasps at his broad shoulders and strong back when he turns his attention to the underside of her jaw, already overstimulated and fighting to stay lucid.

"Castle," she gasps out, her voice coming out hoarse from disuse. It startles her partner, she's confused when he tenses and lets her go. He steps back as if he's been burned, hands unconsciously raised in the 'I surrender' position. Reeling at the loss of his heat and mouth, she wonders why he stopped until a look in his eyes tells her. Castle wears his thoughts so plainly, she knows. He's trying so hard to be a gentleman, to give her every opportunity to stop this. He thinks he's gone too far or she's going to leave or...

Kate jumps to damage control mode and doesn't let him take another step away. Wrapping her arms around him again, she pulls him back to where they'd been for ages, leaned against his door. She bites her lip for a moment, searching for any stray feeling inside her that isn't sure, that doubts him, that doesn't want him – need him – now or tomorrow or all the ages after that. Satisfied that no such thoughts are to be found, she faces him again, her hazel eyes clear and honest.

"Take me to bed, Castle?" The breath he's been holding let out, Castle settles back into her, pushing her gently back to her earlier position.

"Kate," he says it reverently, kissing her again before confirming, "No going back, Kate?" She shakes her head. No, no going back.

"I can't stop again, Kate." No more stopping.

"Please," she whispers. She needs this as much as he does. "_Please, _Castle."

The moment the final string breaks, she can almost see it. The tension winds too tight and the wire snaps. His last hold on his control is gone, years of carefully disguised longing and pent-up lust flooding through him, into her. Ripping the door to his bedroom open savagely, he backs her towards his bed, kicking the door shut behind him with surprising force, never letting go or letting her mouth far from his own. What sounds like a stack of books falling to the floor crashes from the office. The white lace bra she's wearing one moment is gone the next, lands somewhere by his dresser and his belt joins it a moment later. She shudders and gasps when he skirts his fingers deftly over her ribs, up to her breasts. Feather-light touches across her sensitive nipples, his continued assault on her neck and throat, it's all becoming too much and they've barely gotten started. Unable to see his face, she _feels_ his smirk and it tells her he knows _exactly_ how this is affecting her. She needs more, but she holds out, her resolution to let him take control renewed.

Taking her cue when he works at her trousers, she returns the act. Halfway through pulling his denims down his strong hips, his mouth jumps to her breast and suddenly she can't think any more about anything besides having him. Preferably now. That wicked tongue rakes across her and she arches herself into him in response. A flick of her wrists and his denims are gone, his silk boxers remaining. Stepping out of his denims and kicking them away, he marches her backwards to his bed, still fussing with the buttons on her trousers and still working his talented mouth at her breasts.

Kate whines just a little, unable to stamp the noise down. Her partner bites at her sensitive flesh, not hard, just enough to shock a louder sound from her.

"That's it," Castle mumbles around her, encouraging her.

"Help," he growls, still unable to get her trousers undone, his frustration mounting. Laughing at him, she follows his order none-the-less. Damn slide closures. At last she's free and his hands are on her thighs, his mouth ghosting down her chest, abdomen, around her navel, over a faded scar from a childhood surgery. Perched on the edge of his bed, she watches him with awe, her hands doing the only thing they can, stroking his hair and cheekbones.

Seeing him hook his fingers into her lace-trimmed panties and slide them down her long legs nearly unravels her. Eyes glittering, he looks deliberately at her as he throws her last scrap of clothing somewhere in the vicinity of its matching article by the door. Even kneeling between her legs, he's every bit the playful predator as he holds her gaze and licks a single searing stripe up her core, grinning into her when she gives him a strangled cry as he hits her clit.

"Katherine Beckett," he breathes between kisses up her thigh, "you," her hip bone, "are the last woman," her chest, "I will ever make love to."

The admission – the promise inherent in it – stuns her silent, and it's just as well when his lips finally come back to her own to punctuate his oath. She shows him instead, tries to convey the unspoken _me, too_ with her kisses and her hands. He guides her gently but insistently until she's sitting with her back against his headboard and he's on his knees above her. She can't wait any longer to touch him. Tentatively she palms him through his boxers and he jumps at the contact, sucks in a breath of air. He's hot and hard in her hands, straining and she can't get enough of how he reacts to her slightest touch. He groans lowly into her mouth when her slender fingers wrap around his length, stroking him, and his hold on her tightening involuntarily when she sheds his boxers. Skin sliding on skin, they mould together, Castle sinking down into her embrace. His fingers search out her core and quickly find their target. She's long past overstimulated, breathes out short, sharp cries that he swallows eagerly when the pad of his thumb presses her clit and he slips a finger inside of her. She clenches tightly and he somehow knows not to push further; it's been a while and even just this much is bringing her close. Each drive of his hand and each stroke of his tongue against her lips, jaw, chest, collar, neck, brings her closer to the edge until her world narrows to a point.

"Let go, Kate," he coaxes her. "That's it," she cries out her partner's name, breaking around him. Castle nips her collarbone and whispers his approval to her, soothing her as she comes down.

"Good girl. If you could just see yourself, Kate... _christ._"

Kate whines when she feels him withdraw from her, still worked up and needing him, only to sigh contentedly when he shifts her so that she's sitting up on her knees, eye level with him and straddling his lap. Her free hand gropes around to his ass, feels his muscles jump as she tries to pull him closer, noting his strength with pleasure – strong ass, strong thrust. Eager to find out first-hand, she ramps up her tease. One hand's fingers still wrapped around his cock, she squeezes playfully and brushes her thumb over the leaking tip, smearing his precum over him, pleased when he doubles over a little, groaning.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth. Humming in response, she rotates her hips and brings her core against his base. He brings his hands to her waist and hips, locking eyes with her before lifting her up, positioning her over his length. His tip pushes inside her and she sees his eyes slam shut as he takes several ragged breaths, trying to regain a little control, still trying to be a gentleman. It's her turn to encourage him and she relishes it.

"Castle, I want you," she whispers into his cheek, "Castle, _please._"

Withdrawing once, just to see her gasp at the loss, he drives back into her slowly, filling her, stretching her almost painfully but _oh,_ so fully. She almost comes again from that alone. The connection that carries them through as partners and friends translates so easily to a connection of lovers, she wonders if maybe they have been for some time, simply denying themselves the rewards of what already existed in each mind and heart. Castle thrusts slowly, striking that spot deep inside her and if only he'd just speed up... She tries to drive down on him, but he'll have none of it; his large hands fasten harder around her waist and hips, forcing her to stay still and let him set their pace. She revels in it even in her frustration and gives herself over gladly, clutching to his arms and shoulders.

Always tightly controlled and never one to be particularly vocal in bed, Kate none-the-less finds that she's unable to censor herself. Castle won't stand for any less. Every thrust pushes her higher and as her partner sets a quicker pace, halfway undone, her sharp staccato cries and disjointed words spurring him on. He moves harder, deeper, hitting her _there_ again and again until she feels the edge of her orgasm barrelling closer, feels her body clench him and her breathing speed and shallow out, but maddeningly, he backs off just as she's about to tip over the edge. Castle gives her hip one hard parting squeeze, a tacit reminder to behave. Diverting one hand up to touch her face, he hooks his thumb under her jaw just shy of pressing on her throat, and curls his fingers behind her head to tangle in her hair.

"Look at me," he orders, meeting her eyes and compelling her to return his stare. He repays her compliance with a return to his earlier rhythm, their white-hot connection amplified by their held gaze.

She builds again quickly, the look in Castle's reverent eyes tell her he's close too. His hands are rough on her, but his expression is so achingly tender, so full of adoration even as he takes control of her with an adeptness that surprises her. Her chest tightens as she wonders what she could be missing out on – maybe for years, maybe forever – if she hadn't gotten (forced) him to reveal that list. His thrusts come slower now, but deeper. He's taking his time to feel her, to drag as much pleasure from her as he can. She knows he's trying to make it last, committing their first time to memory, not wanting it to end but so intent on release at the same time.

Her partner slams into her abruptly, incapable of holding back any more. His eyes boring into her, he tells her with his body and a ragged voice what he wants, what he needs.

"Come for me, Kate," she can't breathe, her whole body winds tight, "come." She shatters around him at his command, screams for him – only for him. Castle falls over the edge with her, giving her a final sharp thrust before spilling deep inside her, holding her still and finally breaking his gaze with her in favour of a searing kiss.

They return slowly, allowing their scattered atoms to rearrange themselves. Still sheathed inside her, Castle drops his head to her shoulder and languidly laps at her neck, his knuckles dragging over her face, thumb running over her lips. She sags against him, panting, her heart slamming in her chest as her head comes to rest on his shoulder. She returns his caring ministrations, touching any flesh she can, too exhausted to do much else. Eventually he finds the energy to move, disentangling their legs and separating them. She sighs at the loss, but settles into him when he pulls her into his side, not even bothering with the covers and instead electing to let their body heat warm them.

Drifting off in Castle's protecting arms, the last thing she's conscious of is his soft kiss to her temple as he tucks her head under his chin. In lieu of a spoken goodnight, all she can do is draw closer. They have all the time in the world for words, for discovery, for experimentation, for bucket lists, for big things and little things and silly things. Her responding kiss at his clavicle is enough.

* * *

Castle wakes some hours before dawn, the only light that of the city far below, its glowy gaze filtering through his windows. He blinks away the remnants of a dream of a hellishly cold place only to feel the warm weight of something across his arm, leaning into his shoulder and chest. He stills, wondering if he's dreaming. It wouldn't be the first time he's dreamt any of his countless variants of this fantasy, experienced it with such a treasonous texture of reality, only for the harsh truth to set in with the cold light of day. Each time it drains him a little more. But she shifts a bit in his arms, and he dully feels his body twinge with the low, good-kind-of-pain borne of a night well-spent, there in the morning to reassure him he's awake and this is real.

Memories check in one by one, in random order, but all of them underline a picture of reality he barely dares believe. She's still here. Still here, still his, still dozing peacefully in his arms. He hardly trusts his eyes as they come into focus and he can just make out her sleeping form beside him. She shivers in her sleep and he wonders if she's back in the freezer like he was, in her own dreamland, so he pulls a blanket up, careful not to wake her, shifts her closer to him. An hour or more must pass that he lays there, unmoving, watching her slowly come round to the world of the living. She's sunk all the way into his marrow now, he thinks, her presence as vital as blood and oxygen and the electric current to keep it all coursing through him. When she finally opens her eyes to see him, she smiles – her genuine, beautiful, toothy smile that pulls at the corners of her eyes just a little and pulls at his heart just a lot.

He glances over to his bedside clock and sees that they've just crossed into the safe zone and are free for the day, her on-call status having ended at 4:30. They have all the time they want to enjoy their morning after, and he can think of a few ways he'd like to start. More than a few ways, his lower brain supplies helpfully. But for now, he's satisfied – satisfied doesn't even begin to describe it; unspeakably thrilled gets just marginally closer – to simply hold her in the cool grey gloaming hour as they listen to their city get started without them.

Somewhere outside, he hears the distant church bells toll. It's Sunday morning, he figures they must be from St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, always the first of many to sound throughout the day.

Feeling her mutely mouth something into his chest before she smiles again against his skin, he doesn't have to think to know what it is.

Castle knew there was a reason he likes that word so much.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm so sorry if this is nonsense. It started out as a silly T-rated drabble about Scrabble, and turned into a personal challenge to write my very first... erm... "explicit" scene. And apparently, a personal challenge to stretch it out as long as possible and then some. I should be working on my multi-chapter story or heaven forbid doing actual work, but I'm blocked and writing this little bit of instant gratification was a nice break. I hope you enjoyed it and I'd love to hear from you even if you didn't.


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